Silver Bullets
by embroiderama
Summary: Sam’s Halloween costume is too realistic for his own good, and Halloween almost ends in tragedy for the Winchesters.


Title: Silver Bullets

Author: embroiderama

Characters: Sam, Dean, John

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: none

Spoilers: none

Word Count: 5599

Disclaimer: None of the Winchesters belong to me, alas.

Summary: Sam's Halloween costume is too realistic for his own good, and Halloween almost ends in tragedy for the Winchesters.

Notes: This was written for spnhalloween. Thank you to pheebs1 for a very helpful beta job, and thank you to my flist for handholding during my technical crisis.

Prompt: Teen Sammy wants to go to a Halloween dance but John forbids it. A rebellious Sam gets his hands on a costume, sneaks out of the house but Dean is surprised by the sight of Sam fleeing from the house and, thinking he's a creature, shoots him and injures him in some way.

"Absolutely not."

"Look, Dad, I'll just--"

"No, you look." Dad's expression had gone past reasonable, blown through a little bit sorry, and was firmly in the middle of pissed, probably heading for thermonuclear, but Sam didn't seem to notice. "Tomorrow night is Halloween. It is the full moon, and there are active werewolves in the area. You won't be leaving this house by yourself after dark, much less going to a dance with who the hell knows what kind of people."

"Normal people! Nooooormaaaaaal." Sam drew it out, taunting, and Dean didn't even want to look at Dad's face this time.

"Your room," Dad growled. "Now."

"This sucks! Dean went to a party last week!"

Dean turned away from the look Dad shot him.

"Dean," he ground out, "is eighteen years old and has proven to me that he can be responsible for himself. You, on the other hand, I'm not so sure I trust to stay at home by yourself right now, much less go out to some party."

Dean didn't have to look to know the hurt, outraged look on Sam's face. "But-- That's not fair!"

"Fair's not a word we use around here. Now go to your room, and I'd get some rest if I were you because I plan to run that attitude out of you in training this weekend. Understand?"

Dean could hear the tearful, "I hate you," that Sam tossed out as he ran up the stairs. Dad had heard it too, and the tight lines of his jaw and his shoulders said he was pissed off, but his eyes just looked tired to Dean.

There was just one thing bothering Dean. Hell, there was a lot about this whole scene--Dad and Sam fighting, him in the middle--that bothered Dean, but there was just one thing he had to ask about. "Hey, Dad?"

He waited until John looked up in acknowledgement. "What you said about Sam not being alone in the house. Um, what about the hunt tomorrow night?"

"You're going to have to stay here with him."

"But--"

John cut him off with a shake of his head. "I can't fight with you, too. Please, son. You stay here, keep watch on the home base."

Dean made himself nod, swallowed back a sigh.

"Looks like they've been roaming not too far from this neighborhood, so you might see them before I do. Be prepared, keep watch. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if Sammy tries to go to that dance you duct tape him to the kitchen table."

"Will do." Dean felt himself grin a little at the image.

Sam stomped up the stairs, and before he even got inside the bedroom he had his plan all figured out. Inside the room, he grabbed his backpack from the floor next to his bed and dumped out the heavy textbooks, zipped it closed and then checked in his pocket to make sure the thirty bucks he'd earned raking leaves for the old people down the street was still in there. He swung his backpack onto his shoulder, pushed the window and the screen up, and climbed out onto the gently sloping roof of the back porch.

Dean had given him this idea when they'd moved in last year. He'd told Sam they were lucky to have a back way out, just in case, but Sam knew Dean had used it to slip out at night a few times. Sam had never used it before, and when he got out onto the roof the cold breeze stung his face where it whipped at the tears below his eyes.

"Damn it." He scrubbed them away with his sleeve and clambered down the slope of the

roof as quietly as possible, swung himself down to step on the railing around the porch, then reached down and grabbed onto the railing to help himself hop to the ground. If he ran, he could get to the CVS up the street in under five minutes. He could shop fast and then run back home and climb back to the room before Dean and Dad even got done talking about him, or whatever they were doing in the living room.

He ran the three blocks down their street, then turned right, ran another block and stood at the corner of Center St., bouncing a little on his heels as he watched for a break in the traffic. When he saw a gap he darted across the street, jumped up onto the curb as he heard a horn blast and felt the wind of a truck pass right behind him. He grinned to himself and ran inside the CVS.

The bright lights of the store dazzled him in contrast to the early evening darkness outside, but he blinked past it and headed straight for the big aisle in the middle where they had all the Halloween stuff. The costume section was small. Really small. Sam wished he could get Dean to take him to the big Halloween store outside of town that all the other kids kept talking about, but that would never happen now. He'd just have to find something. Make something work.

He quickly dismissed the little kid costumes, smirked at the stupid vampire masks--vampires, as if--and rolled his eyes at the masks of political figures. Too little, too fake, too uncool. He dug his hand down into the pile of masks at the bottom of the shelf, the ones that had fallen off their hooks, and felt something rough and hairy. He pulled the mask out and grinned.

This one looked real. This one had been made by somebody who'd seen the real thing, or at least a picture. He checked the price and saw that he'd have enough left over to get some of the awesome-looking rubbery claws to go over his fingers. He could find something at home for the rest.

Sam took his mask and claws to the cash register, grabbing a candy bar along the way. He paid, stuffed the bag inside his backpack, and took off across the street and towards home. Getting back up onto the roof was harder than getting down, and he was a little bit scared that the rotting railing was going to collapse under him, but it didn't, and he hauled himself up over the edge of the roof and into the still-empty bedroom.

Friday night, Halloween, and Sam had been in his room since he got home from school. Dean watched Dad checking and re-checking his weapons and ammo and wished that Sam could just get with the program again. They'd been a team, always, just the three of them, but the last year or so everything had started to pull apart, and this Halloween shit was just typical.

Sam, being a little bitch, sulking about some stupid dance. Dad, going off alone on a hunt that should be all three of them. Dean, stuck in the middle. Even worse, he knew that their time in this town was just about up, knew that Dad had been checking the out of town newspapers, looking for the next place to go, and Sam was going to throw a fit. The last move had been bad, and now… Dean tried not to think about it too much.

"Okay, son." Dad started him out of his thoughts, "I'm leaving you six of the silver bullets for your rifle and the silver dagger, just in case."

Dean nodded, crossed the room and picked up the bullets, then started loading them himself.

"Now, listen, you keep an eye on the yard, practice your surveillance skills. And make sure your brother stays put. If I find out you let him go to that dance, you'll be sorry. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, I'll have my beeper on vibrate, so send me the signal if you see one of those bastards."

"I will. Hey, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful. I wish you'd let me back you up."

"I'll be fine. Makes it easier, knowing I can trust you to keep on top of things here."

That sounded strangely like praise, and Dean turned away, hiding his smile. He clipped the silver dagger, in its sheath, onto his belt, and took his rifle over to the side window to begin surveillance. When he heard the front door close behind Dad, he went over to lock the deadbolt and considered calling up the stairs to Sam, seeing if he wanted to hang out. The silence coming from their bedroom felt forbidding, and Dean just sighed to himself and walked around to all the windows on the first floor. He opened them each an inch, far enough that he could hear any sounds from outside, and also enough of an opening to fit the barrel of his rifle.

He'd make his rounds of the windows. He'd watch; he'd wait; he'd worry about Dad.

Sam checked himself out in the mirror as he heard the door bang shut downstairs. He had the best Halloween costume ever. His masked face in the mirror snarled back at him, canine teeth bared, hair sprouting from the cheeks, nose nearly a snout. He'd put his own thick sweatshirt under a ragged old sweater of Dad's, and the layers made him look bigger, bulkier, kind of furry. Long, ripped-up pants over top of his jeans made his legs look thicker, too, made him look wild and rough; plus they covered up his sneakers.

He put the claws on last, stretching the rubber over his fingers, and then swiped at his image in the mirror. Sweet! He looked at the clock and saw that he only had five minutes left to get to Brian's house down the street. His mom was going to give them a ride and pick them up after the dance.

Sam hurried to shove some laundry under the covers of his bed, awkwardly shaping them into a lump down the center with his rubber-tipped fingers, then turned off the light and hoped that Dean stayed downstairs and didn't check up on him. Climbing out the window and down onto the porch was more difficult with his costume on, and Sam held his breath, hoping and praying to anything that might listen that Dean wasn't looking out the back window.

He dropped down to the ground without hearing anything from inside the house and breathed out heavily in relief. Home free. Almost. He still had to get around the side of the house and out to the street without Dean catching him. He tried to be quiet, but the litter of dry leaves crunched under his footsteps, so he dropped into a crouch, tried to stay low and hoped that if Dean heard anything he'd assume it was a dog.

Dean heard the crunch of leaves, footsteps moving around the side of the house. Listening closely, he could hear that it wasn't a dog; it was something bigger, something like a person. He dropped down by the side window in the living room and pressed his eye up to the opening between the shade and the windowsill.

Holy shit. He swallowed thickly, seeing the figure moving beside the house. Not a person, not with that face, not with that bulky shape, moving in a low crouch, almost a crawl, through the night. Moonlight shimmered over the creature's body, and he saw teeth, claws. Still, he'd never shot anything that looked this much like a person before.

He pushed down his nerves and shouldered the rifle, sticking the barrel up to the window screen and aiming at the figure below him. His hand shook as he pulled the trigger, and the bullet went wrong, just winging it instead of going through the heart. Damnit!

Sam was just about past the living room window when he heard the shot. He had a stunned second to wonder what was going on, if Dean was okay, before he realized that he was laying on the ground, that his arm hurt like hell, and the ground was cold, cold, damp soaking through his shirts.

Dean moved to put another round in, then froze at the sound from outside. Werewolves didn't scream like that. Werewolves howled, growled. Whimpered even. But they didn't scream.

"DEAN!"

It had to be a trick. Some kind of enchantment, it couldn't be-- "Sammy!" Dean called out, tearing away from the window and pounding up the stairs. He banged open the door to their room, and when he saw the formless lumps on the bed he wanted to be sick. His heart beat in his throat as he ran down the stairs, jumping over more steps than he hit. At the front door, he fumbled with the locks for long, terrible seconds before he finally got outside, leaped over the side of the porch and fell to the side of the bleeding figure lying in the grass and dead leaves next to their house.

This close, he could see that the werewolf face was a mask, rubber teeth, rubber nose. He tore it off, throwing it off to the side, and saw his brother's pale face, eyes clenched shut, sweat beading across his forehead.

"Oh my god, oh my god," Dean breathed out, panic eating up his thoughts. "Sammy? Sammy?" He patted his brother's face until his eyes opened, looking pained and confused.

"Dean! There's something--something--," he stuttered.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Dean fumbled with the thick layers of clothing over his brother's arm, felt blood, warm and sticky, seeping out through the cloth. "Oh my god, Sammy. What were you--"

Dean cut himself off. Didn't matter, didn't matter what Sam was doing. Had to figure this out, had to fix it. Had to. He tore through the sweater first, then the sweatshirt, made the holes big enough that he could pull Sam's arm through. And, shit, there was a lot of blood, too much blood, and Sam cried out again and tried to pull his arm away. Dean held on tight, turning the arm to see that there was an exit wound to match the entrance wound.

A small measure of relief shook through him at the sight of that, at knowing the bullet wasn't still inside his brother's body. He pulled his flannel shirt off over his head and wrapped it around Sam's arm clenching it tight to try to stop the flow of blood.

"How you doing, Sammy? You think you can help me get you inside?"

He didn't get a response right away, so he shook Sam's good arm until he opened his eyes. Sam blinked a few times, looking confused in a way that Dean didn't like at all.

"'m cold."

Sam sounded younger than 14, sounded young and hurt, and Dean wanted to throw up from the guilt sitting in his stomach. His hand felt sticky again, where blood was already seeping through the makeshift bandage, and when Sam's eyes fluttered closed again Dean knew they needed help.

He wrapped his arms around Sam and lifted him off the ground, long skinny limbs dangling limply against him. They had to get to the hospital, but Dad had the car, and it might take him too long to answer his pager, too long to get back. Dean saw their neighbor's light on, knew they were home waiting for trick-or-treaters, and carried his brother down the sidewalk and up onto their porch, leaned on the doorbell until the man answered.

"My brother," Dean panted. "An accident. I need to get him to the hospital."

"Jesus Christ," the man drawled, looking them both over. "Okay, hold tight."

The man disappeared inside the house for a minute, and Dean wasn't sure what he should do, was afraid the guy was going to call the cops or something. He didn't think he could carry his brother all the way to the hospital, and it would take too long, was already taking too long. Dean moved to ring the bell again, but the door opened and the man came out with a blanket and his keys. "Come on."

He opened the passenger side of his truck. "Give 'im to me. It's okay."

There wasn't time to hesitate. Dean handed Sammy over to the man and climbed up inside the truck. The man put Sam in his lap, draped the blanket over top of him, and then ran around to the driver's side of the truck and pulled off down the street.

"What the hell happened there, boy?"

"It was an accident." Dean hated the way his voice shook, but he couldn't help it, just held on tight to the rapidly soaking shirt wrapped around his brother's wounded arm. He heard the man talking, probably asking more questions, but he couldn't concentrate, couldn't listen to him. He listened to his brother's breaths, steady but slow, kept one hand on the bandage, his other hand wiping the sweat away from Sammy's cold face. He'd screwed up, he'd screwed up so bad, and Sammy was paying for it. Again.

When the truck pulled up to the ER entrance, Dean told the man that he didn't need any help and climbed out of the truck with Sam in his arms. He stumbled into the building, and then Sam was taken from him. Without Sam clutched to him, he felt cold in just his t-shirt, and the bright lights hummed around him as people asked him questions. And what could he tell them? There'd been an accident, and his little brother got shot in the arm.

Finally they let him use a phone. He called his father's pager, leaving the main hospital number and 911. Dad would see the number and know where they were. He would come. Dean tucked his cold hands under his arms and hoped that Dad would come soon.

When Sam woke up, his arm still hurt, and he was still cold, but everything was bright and white around him, and he knew he was in the hospital. He remembered dressing up and the gunshot and Dean. Dean, he realized, his stomach suddenly hurting almost as much as his arm, Dean must have thought he was a real werewolf and shot him. There was a curtain drawn around his bed, and he couldn't see anyone, but he could hear voices talking nearby.

"I'm sorry, Dad, I thought--" That was Dean sounding panicked and weird. "I fucked up. I fucked up. I'm sorry."

"I know you are. Dean? Dean. I know. Look, we don't have time for this right now. What did the doctor say?"

"The bu-bullet didn't hit the bone. They stitched up the wounds. Gave him some blood. The doctor said he's gonna be okay, but they want to keep him overnight. I think they're, um, waiting."

"Yeah, I'm sure. I heard on the way up there that there's a big accident on the highway, got all the cops tied up. You know they'll be here as soon as that's cleared up."

"Y-yes, sir. It's my fault, I'll go--"

"God damnit. Dean, listen to me. We're going to talk about this later, but that's not the way this is going down. We've got to get the hell out of here."

Sam felt tears burning in his eyes and nose, and he knew he'd screwed everything up. He just wanted to go to the Halloween dance. He just wanted to be cool, to show up in an awesome costume. But now Dean sounded like he felt really bad, and Dad was mad, and they were going to have to leave this place, and everything was ruined. He sniffled loudly, and then the curtain around him opened, and Dad walked in.

"Look who's awake." Dad smiled, but his eyes still looked worried.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

"You should be," Dad replied, his voice gentle. "You heard me and Dean talking just now?"

"Yeah."

"What I told him goes for you, too. We're going to talk about this later, but for right now we've got to move it or lose it. Do you understand?"

Sam wanted to say no. No, he didn't understand anything, but then Dean stepped inside the curtain to stand next to Dad. He looked so sad, like somebody had died or something, and there was blood all over his t-shirt. Dad's heavy leather coat looked like it was weighing down his shoulders, and Dean wouldn't look him in the eye. Sam just looked at his father and nodded.

"How do you feel? You feel like you could sit up long enough to get out of here?"

"Yeah."

"Good. We're going to get you out of here soon, so just rest until then."

Sam let his eyes close then, and he woke up again to the pinch of his IV being removed.

"Wake up, Sammy. There you are," Dad whispered. "Dean, help him get dressed."

Sam sat up as Dean pulled gently on his uninjured arm. He winced as Dean threaded his bandaged arm into the sleeve of the sweatshirt, but the pain woke him up enough to put the shirt on the rest of the way by himself. Dean steadied him as he stood up to step into his pants, but he still wouldn't meet Sam's eyes.

"Dean." He didn't know what to say, didn't know how to fix this. "It's not your fault, man, I shouldn't have--"

"Shut up," Dean whispered. "We don't want them to hear us."

Dad came around the bed with a wheelchair, and more quickly than Sam would have imagined the three of them were outside the hospital. Dad ran ahead while Dean pushed the chair, and then the car was in front of them, headlights dazzling Sam's eyes. Dean helped him into the back seat, pushed him to lie down, folded his legs inside the door, and covered him with blankets that smelled familiarly of gun oil.

Sam closed his eyes, heard two car doors bang shut, and then they were moving. He woke up again when the car stopped, and he looked outside to see their house, the house where they'd lived for almost a whole year. Dad wasn't in the car anymore, but Sam could see the side of Dean's head.

"Are we going inside?"

"No." Dean shook his head. "Dad's going in to get the weapons and clothes and stuff, and then we gotta jam."

Sam wanted to cry, wanted to yell, wanted to beg Dad to let them stay, but he knew he couldn't. He couldn't because this time, it was his fault that they had to go. This time, if they didn't go, worse things were going to happen than having to start over at a new high school. "You should go inside and help him."

"No, I'm staying with you."

"It'd be faster if--"

"No. Sammy, I screwed up enough tonight, okay? If I left you alone and something-"

"It's not your fault."

"Just shut up!" His brother's voice sounded oddly thick and rough. "Shut up, I'm stayin' right here."

A few minutes later, he heard the trunk open and felt the car shift as Dad dumped their things inside. The driver's side door opened and Dad got inside. Sam shivered as a draft of cool air settled into the back seat, and Dad turned around to look at him.

"You doing okay back there, dude?"

"Yeah. Where're we going?"

"I think we're going to stop by and see Pastor Jim. It's a long drive, so just sleep back there if you can. Okay?"

Sam nodded, feeling his eyes closing already. He fell asleep before they reached the highway.

In the guest bedroom of Jim's house, John could still hear the congregation singing the their hymns on Sunday morning. He sat on one of the beds drinking coffee and watching Sam sleep in the other bed. They'd arrived at Jim's the afternoon before, more than twelve hours of hard driving behind them, all of them exhausted, Sammy hurting.

Jim had called a friend of his, a doctor, who had checked Sam's wound and left them with antibiotics and pain pills. Sam would be fine; the wound was healing, and the pain pills let him sleep. John wished there were as simple of a prescription for Dean.

Dean had insisted on sleeping on Jim's couch, insisted that John should share the bedroom with Sam, but John was sure that Dean hadn't slept at all. John had been too tired to argue with him, had all put passed out once the doctor had seen to Sam, the long drive on top of the aborted hunt and the panicked rush of Friday night knocking him out. He'd finally woken up in the darkness of early Sunday morning to find Dean, hollow-eyed and pale, sitting on the floor outside their room.

He'd jumped to his feet, looking startled and scared, as soon as John had stepped through the door. By the time John had hit the head and woken up enough to figure out how to start talking to Dean, the boy had gone, leaving a note on the table to let them know he'd gone for a walk.

Now, feeling clean from a long shower and introspective from talking to Jim, John watched Sam sleep and thought about the first time they had come here. They had all shared the room then; Dean, still so small, had curled around his baby brother in the bed they shared. John had always trusted Dean to protect Sam. Now, thirteen years later, he realized it was a little bit crazy to trust a five year old with something so important, but at the time they had been all he could trust, all he could see in a world gone to hell.

During their long drive, John had got the story out of Dean. How he'd heard something creeping alongside the house. How he'd seen the werewolf, how he'd been sure of what it was. How he'd been unable to shoot it in the heart even though he was a damn fine marksman, better than most men twice his age. John was sure that something in Dean, in his subconscious, had at the last second recognized his brother in that disguised figure, had forced his hand to twitch to the side, had turned aside the kill shot that would have taken all of them down.

Jim, after John told him the details what had happened, was sure that it had been the hand of God, moving to prevent Dean from making a tragic mistake. If it had been God, John thought, he might have moved a little farther or a little faster and prevented his boys from getting hurt at all, but John was thankful either way.

Sam would be okay. In a day or two, he wouldn't need the serious pain meds anymore, and they'd keep a close eye on him to make sure he didn't get an infection. Once it healed some more, he'd start the boy back on a training regimen, get the muscle in shape again. He'd heal fast, and before they knew it there'd be nothing but a pair of small scars to remind Sam of the wound.

He had a feeling that Dean would take longer to heal. John hoped that, once Dean got back from his walk, he could get Dean to lay down and sleep for a while. He figured he'd have to promise to keep an eye on Sammy himself to get Dean to close his eyes, but that was no hardship.

Later, he'd have to talk to the boy, try to get him to see that it had been a mistake anybody could have made. Maybe Jim could get through to Dean, if Dean would let him inside. John knew from personal experience that the pastor could be a good and wise friend, but he also knew that nobody could help you if you didn't let them.

In the end, he suspected that Sam would be the person best equipped to help Dean. The boys were so close, and from the earliest days after they'd lost Mary, holding onto Sam had been the way Dean seemed to get back to being some kind of okay. Dean was punishing himself right now, staying away from Sam, not sleeping in the same room. John had been too bleary-eyed tired to see it the previous day, but he planned to put a stop to it as soon as Dean got back.

When Sam woke up, he knew they'd been at Pastor Jim's for a few days, but this was the first time he felt all the way awake. He had vague, foggy memories of waking up long enough to sit up and eat something, visit the bathroom. He thought that Dad'd had to help him a couple times, and even the foggy memory of that was embarrassing enough that he was glad it wasn't clearer. His arm didn't hurt too much now, and he saw that there was only a small bandage on it, not the big, white wrapping they'd put on it at the hospital.

It was nighttime, but the moon, still not far away from full, reflected enough light into the room to let him look around the room. Dad was sleeping, sprawled in an arm chair that was wedged into the space between the end of Sam's bed and the closet door. The other bed was empty, the covers pulled back but looking nearly undisturbed.

Moving as silently as he could, Sam crept out of bed and across the room, breathing a sigh of relief when he got out of the room without waking Dad. It felt good to stretch his legs, so he walked downstairs, hoping he could find something to soothe his dust-dry throat.

"Hey, you okay?"

Dean's voice started him, and he stopped walking, finally noticing his brother sitting up on the couch in the dark living room.

"Just thirsty." Sam rounded the couch, just a few steps away from the kitchen.

"Sit down," Dean said, standing up from the couch. "I'll get you something to drink."

"But, I--"

"Siddown," Dean called back. Dean was already in the kitchen, so Sam shrugged and sat down, pulling his cold feet up underneath him.

"Here." Dean handed him a tall glass. "You shouldn't be up and walking around by yourself."

Sam took a long drink from the glass. Cold apple cider. God, it tasted like the best thing ever. When the glass was empty, Sam held onto it, turning it around and around in his hands. Dean sat all the way at the other end of the sofa, staring straight ahead at the far wall, but Sam could feel Dean watching him through his peripheral vision.

The silence of the darkened living room felt oppressive, but Sam knew he had to say something. Had to try. "I'm sorry I screwed everything up."

"You didn't do anything wrong," Dean replied without turning, his voice sounding cold and far away.

"I lied to you, and I disobeyed Dad, and you almost got in serious trouble. All because of me, Dean."

"I should've got in trouble."

"Don't be retarded."

Sam wanted to keep talking, wanted to make sure Dean understood that he was sorry, but he felt sleepiness washing over him again. Crazy, to feel this sleepy after sleeping for so long already, but still, his eyes wanted to droop closed, and his limbs felt heavy and warm. Bed was too far away.

Sam stood up just far enough to put his glass down on the coffee table in front of the sofa then sat down on the middle cushion and leaned over, pulling his feet up onto the end of the couch and letting his head drop down on Dean's lap.

"Wha--Sammy?" Sam just closed his eyes and listened to Dean sigh, the muscles under his head relaxing and softening. Sam felt Dean's warm hand come to rest on his head, and then he dropped down into sleep.

John woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the mother of all kinks in his neck from sleeping in a chair all night. Two empty beds. Two absent boys. Must be losing his edge, he thought. Or maybe they were just that sneaky.

He hit the head and then walked downstairs, intend on coffee and breakfast, only to stop short at the sight that greeted him in Jim's living room. Sammy sleeping, stretched out across the sofa, covered by a blanket, his long legs hanging over the arm rest, his head in Dean's lap. Dean slept too, thank God, his mouth hanging open slightly, his upper body slumping over toward Sam.

John stood and drank in the sight of them for a long minute, wishing as he always did that Mary were here to see them, too. Fourteen years now. Fourteen years since he had seen her smile, and three days ago he'd almost lost Sam. Almost lost Dean, too, but both boys were still here. Whole together, if not apart, sleeping peacefully on Jim Murphy's sofa.

They'd get back to hunting soon. He'd go back, during the next full moon, and kill the werewolf that had escaped him this time. Soon, he hoped, they would find the thing that took Mary, make the boys safe for real. But for now this quiet, this place that felt safe, was a gift, and he meant to accept it.


End file.
